Pen Pal

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19

A

fterward, we don’t speak.

I don’t know if he’s feeling as emotionally raw as I am or if he simply has nothing to say, but he rolls off me and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The faucet runs. The toilet flushes. He reappears carrying a wet washcloth and a hand towel. He silently pushes me onto my back and wipes the washcloth gently between my legs as I lie there feeling as if all my bones have turned to liquid.

He dries me off with the hand towel, then rises and flips off the light switch. Then he crawls onto the mattress beside me, rolls me to my side, pulls me against his chest, and buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.

When he exhales, it sounds as if a hundred years of pent-up frustrations leave his body in the same breath.

Eventually, his breathing slows to a deep, even cadence that tells me he’s asleep.

I lie there in the dark enveloped in his warmth and think about Michael.

Was I a good wife?

I don’t know. I tried to be. More than anything, I wanted to make him happy. He wanted me to be happy, too, and I thought we were perfect for each other. All our jagged little pieces matched. We fit.

But our relationship was nothing like this.

I know it’s unfair to make comparisons. I also know it’s unfair that I lied to Aidan about being separated from my husband instead of simply telling him the truth.

But he caught me off guard. I had no idea anything even remotely like this would happen. I wasn’t prepared for the extent of our attraction, for the force of it, for the way I’m drawn to him with an intensity I feel strangely powerless to resist.

And so I simply let him believe Michael was still alive. Part of me wants to believe it as well. Part of me wants to believe this isn’t the truth:

My husband is dead.

He fell off our boat and drowned.

I watched it happen.

Maybe I haven’t told Aidan about it because I don’t want to relive that last part. The splashing and the screaming. Michael’s desperate cries for help growing weaker as the boat drifted farther and farther away.

The smell of smoke over the dark water and the awful, brittle laughter that seemed to come from everywhere all around.

I didn’t tell the detective who interviewed me after the accident about the laughter. It’s not exactly something I can explain.

I must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing I know, the room is light and Aidan’s big hand is gently stroking my bottom. He’s still behind me in the same position he was when he fell asleep.

He murmurs, “Morning, sweet bunny. Sleep well?”

Turning my head toward him, I inhale and stretch my legs, curling my toes. “I think so. You?”

He presses a kiss to my nape. His hand drifts over my hip and down between my legs. “Like the dead.”

“Hmm. That big hard thing poking into my tailbone doesn’t feel very dead.”

He chuckles. “You can’t blame him. He’s got a beautiful naked woman in his bed.”

When he slips his fingers inside my p***y and strokes them over my c**t, I sigh in pleasure.

“I’m obsessed with that sound,” he says, his voice darker. “With all the sounds you make. I can’t get enough of you, Kayla.”

He bites me on the shoulder. It’s not hard, but it is dominant. Like something an animal would do before it mounts its mate.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s not from cold.”

“I know, baby. Time to sit on my face.”

My eyes fly open. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. And from now on, I expect you to obey an order the first time I give it.”

My heartbeat surges. I lie still with my mind going a million miles an hour until I venture hesitantly, “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m being, um, disobedient. I’m just trying to figure out the rules.”

He kisses my shoulder, then my neck. Actually, kissing isn’t really what he’s doing. It’s more like licking and sucking. As if he’s tasting my skin and finds it delicious.

Nipping my earlobe, he whispers, “Ask your master for permission to speak.”

Oh God. Oh dear holy God in heaven, this is actually happening.

He! Just! Said! That!

Calmly lavishing my shoulders and neck with his lips and tongue, Aidan lazily strokes his fingers back and forth over my c**t, which is now achingly sensitive. My n*****s are, too. So is my entire nervous system, which feels as if it’s about to explode.

Hyperventilating, I whisper, “May I please have permission to speak…master?”

His voice low and hypnotic, he says, “Yes, my perfect, pretty bunny rabbit. You may.”

Then he presses his teeth to the side of my throat and slides a finger inside me.

My cry of pleasure is soft and broken. It takes me a moment to remember what the hell I was going to say. “I…I don’t know exactly what you mean by sit on your face.”

“It’s not rocket science.”

“Yes, but I mean, logistically, how does it work? Do I, like, brace my hands against the wall for balance?”

He sounds surprised. “You’ve never done it before?”

“No. And I don’t want to smother you.”

His laughter is muffled against my skin. Then he groans. “f*****g hell, you’re sweet. You’re so goddamn sweet, I just want to sink my teeth into every inch of you.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of that so far.”

He rolls me to my back and cups my face in his hand. Gazing intently down at me, he says, “What else haven’t you done?”

“Everything that doesn’t include missionary or doggie style with the lights out. Oh, and oral. But nothing…”

“What?”

My cheeks are heating up, damn them. “Kinky.”

“Define kinky.”